


The Sweets of Pillage

by athousandwinds



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-21
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandwinds/pseuds/athousandwinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three things which may or may not have happened to Harry Manders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweets of Pillage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belmanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/gifts).



> The sweets of Pillage can be known  
> To no one but the Thief.  
> \- Emily Dickinson

I don't often shirk my duties as a chronicler - though Raffles often criticised my efforts in the journalistic line, he did offer me that sop for my pride - but there are some things which even I wouldn't care to recall, or that I am not certain Raffles would, or which, my memory not being what it should be after the war, I cannot be sure ever happened, or, assuming the events did occur, if my perception of them was accurate. Nevertheless, having given fair warning, I shall proceed with my tales.

Firstly, a tale of our salad days. Raffles will tell you that I was much as I am now, with the same credulousness and willingness to serve. I think I am much cannier these days, but -

"Only relatively, my dear Bunny," he said when I told him this.

Raffles, I must admit, made rather a pet of me at school. I have never understood why. I fagged for him, of course, although strictly speaking I should not have done, for he was not so much older than I. He liked to have me in his study of an evening, toasting bread on a fork. Every so often, he would look up from his work (for Raffles was rather a dedicated student, and to more things than lockpicking) and smile at me; I, overawed, would smile back.

In what was, in retrospect, a clearer precursor to our eventual relationship, I also used to run interference with our housemaster. He was a bulldog type, middle-aged and (in my frank opinion) was badly in need of a muzzle. He had a particular down on Raffles, and his manner was such that it was difficult _not_ to disobey him; if he ordered one thing, you were immediately tempted to do another, however injurious to your interests. Imagine how potent that combination must have been to Raffles! If we all have a good angel and a bad angel, like Faust of Marlowe's drama, then that housemaster was on the side of the devil.

My usual method, when I heard Raffles approaching the dormitory window, was to get up swiftly out of my warm bed, huddle into my dressing gown and go into the corridor and walk up and down. If our housemaster was intending to enter our dormitory, I would delay him by whatever means I had at hand. Raffles was often helpful with suggestions beforehand.

"Sudden illness, onset of midsummer madness - "

"Perfectly true," I said sulkily.

" - fear of burglars in the east wing, fire bell, sleepwalking, I really can't stop thinking of ideas, Bunny. Kiss him if you have to - or, rather, don't." This last was oddly serious, for Raffles, and I assumed he meant that I should not sacrifice my own school career for his. "Well, yes," he said, when I put this to him. "But I'd rather you didn't go kissing anyone just yet, Bun."

Surprised, I was inclined to acquiesce - I had no particular desire to kiss people - and he waved goodbye before disappearing down the rope for the third night in a row. Sadly, the third time proved to be the charm, for our housemaster came walking along the corridor. I heard the creak of floorboards and leapt out of bed in a way that I had not done before nor have since; that is to say, quickly. Pulling my gown closed around me, I hastened out into the corridor.

"Sir," I said, in a voice that shook without my feigning. "Sir, I don't feel well at all." And, pitching forward - it was quite the virtuoso performance, Raffles would inform me later - I fell, half-fainting, into my housemaster's astonished arms.

The next morning saw Raffles visiting me in the san. "I brought you some chocolate," he said, passing along a veritable brick of the stuff. "You deserve it! That was sporting, Bun, to endure all those medicines for my sake."

I believe I blushed and made some disclaimer. I do suppose I must have been a little feverish in truth, for Raffles pushed me down onto the pillows until all I could do was stare up at him.

"Good Bunny," he said fervently, and - I am not sure, for I fear I really was ill - kissed me very lightly on the mouth. It was typical of Raffles to do that in the san, where any Tom, Dick or Harry could have walked in to witness, or worse, Matron. It was that that inspired me later, as Raffles had a tendency to do.

Secondly, there was the first time I was severely distressed by our choice of career. The job had gone horribly badly - the owner suffered from raging insomnia, and kept a pistol under her pillow, besides - but even so, it was not until we reached the bridge and paused for breath that Raffles reeled against me and I knew something was wrong.

"For God's sake, Raffles!" I cried, feeling the sticky wetness of his sleeve.

"It's nothing," Raffles said, gulping mouthfuls of air. "It's barely a scratch, Bunny, I promise you."

Nevertheless, I insisted on flagging down the nearest hansom, gypping an elderly man to do so, and I flung Raffles on to the seat. Having given the address to the driver - and promised him extra to get us there on the double, which he did admirably - I knelt on the floor of the cab and proceeded to unfasten the buttons on Raffles's jacket. I was about to peel it off, when his eyes opened suddenly.

"No, Bunny, you fool!"

Much miffed, I argued that the wound must be seen to quickly, before infection set in (my knowledge did not go so far as to what the consequences of such an injury must be, but I knew them to be dire). Raffles clapped his hand over the tear in his sleeve, stifled a howl and told me through gritted teeth,

"Think of our neighbours, Bunny! Odd, isn't it, if I'm seen to be bleeding all over the pavement at two in the morning. If I roll in on your shoulder, they'll think I'm just dead drunk."

I did not think caution was worth Raffles's life; he informed me that he was not so badly off as all that, and that I was making a mountain out of a molehill. I sighed loudly, whereupon the driver rapped on the wood and told us we had reached our destination.

In truth, the wound was not so terrible as I had feared; between us we were able to stench the flow of blood and wrap the arm in bandages. We could try for a doctor in the morning, Raffles said, and I replied that I knew a fellow, but that he would not appreciate being knocked up in the middle of the night.

"A good lad, my Bunny," said Raffles drowsily. It had been a long night for him.

"Sleep well, Raffles," I said, pushing him gently down onto the pillows of my bed. Some genius prompted me, I know not why, to return the compliment given me years earlier, and I breathed a kiss onto his lips. To my horror, his eyes opened again, as sharp and as clear as morning.

"Are you going to leave it at that, Bun?" he enquired, flicking up an eyebrow.

I hardly knew what to say. I would have apologised, except that I had the prescience to know that Raffles would accept it and say no more about it. I would have fled, but I had been too slow to consider the option and Raffles held my wrist in an iron grip. But Raffles offered me a genuine half-smile, which meant he was well-contented with the world, and - notwithstanding a wince - reached up to pull my head down that he might kiss me himself, with rather more expertise. And here, I think, I shall draw a veil over our subsequent actions.

Third and final, I think I will tell you that one day, some weeks after the _Gordon Castle_ made port, I was limping my way up to my lodgings. It was my curse that I had chosen a place on a hill, which was most difficult for my leg; still, it was a nice little place and I was fond of it.

Curiously, the door was unlocked, which gave me cause for concern. Drawing my service revolver, I slipped inside and entered my own living room with the safety off.

"Honestly, Bunny," Raffles said, lounging on my sofa with every appearance of comfort, "No decent thief leaves a door like that unlocked unless he wants to warn the inhabitants of his presence. - Hello."

"Raffles," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "How did you - ? No, I don't care." And I embraced him tightly.

"The surgeon dug the bullet out of me," he said. "It was touch and go for a while, you know, and he wouldn't have done it if he weren't sure he could touch me for services rendered. My share of Lady Fitzroy's pearls went on that, I'm afraid. Once I was awake, it was a matter of keeping away from the others until I could make my way to Cape Town and get a passage from there."

"You didn't tell me?"

"There was no time," Raffles said, seriously enough. "By the time I was talking, you were packing, and I didn't want to send word by the surgeon in case it gave away the whole show." He meant, of course, in case _I_ gave away the whole show, which I never would have done, even in my most hapless moments.

"This is the outside limit," I said hotly, making sure he knew of my displeasure. He smiled up at me so trustingly and affectionately that I was almost taken in, but at the last moment I recoiled. "No, really, Raffles, this is enough. You knew what it would do to me, yet you still gave no sign, no word that there might yet be hope? This is the third time I have beheld you dead, and I'm not certain that I can live it through a fourth."

Raffles was silent a good long moment. "You have indeed suffered much at my hands," he said at length. "I would remind you that - well. All debts have been wiped clean, I think, apart from this: for what my apology is worth to you at this point, I am sorry, Bun."

"I should think you are," I said, covering my face with my hands. I felt him move past me and I cried out involuntarily and grasped at his coat like a fractious child distraught at a playmate's departure. "Wait!"

He smiled again, and ruffled my hair. "You needn't worry, Bunny; I was merely going to lock the door." And I saw that he had had two objects in brushing past me: first, to let me know he intended to leave, if his presence was so painful to me; second, to give me the opportunity to call him back. And I knew, too, that he had never really conceived the idea of leaving for good; how could he when he knew how easily my defences fell at his assault? But then I did not care, for Raffles was my friend again, alive and well.

This last is perhaps a lie. I think it would be better for the reader if he could sleep at night knowing that Raffles is not about to burgle his house, nor is he able to burgle anyone's; he lies beneath the veldt, where I laid him myself. For myself, I may say that I was never so happy in my life as when I got my third innings, for A. J. Raffles was certainly dead and gone, with half a dozen to serve as witnesses to his funeral. The companion I found after returning from the war is a man with silvering hair but a young-looking face, who swims and shoots and bats like a dream, who has a charm matched only by trickster gods of ancient times. His name? It would not be fair to tell you that. But you know, perhaps, and I know, and certainly he knows, and there I will leave the matter.


End file.
